


Cover Me

by ronandhermy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Deep Cover, F/M, Gen, When lies and reality meet, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: Years before Napoleon Solo had ever heard the name Gaby Teller, a KGB operative is given an assignment: go deep undercover and gain the trust of Gaby Teller in order to have leverage against her father. What follows is one man's job to gain the trust of a highly distrustful German car mechanic who is not afraid to put Illya in his place. But what happens when lines between the cover and reality blur? What happens when emotions and feelings muddy the waters? And what happens when no one is as they seem?An AU rift on Mr & Mrs Smith.





	1. The First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is based off of the idea of the illegal program that the KGB had in which highly trained spies would go deep undercover for years, sometimes decades, and often seduce and marry their marks in order to gain their trust and loyalty. If anyone has watched The Americans (which you all should) you will know what I am referring to. But I imagine there were similar works of operation all throughout the Soviet controlled areas. Of course, this being a fan work, I will be fudging things here and there (I mean, we're still learning a lot about the KGB and how they operated) so bare with me and let's have some fun.

He was given her file six months before they actually met. One young woman living in East Berlin who was apparently the key to a Nazi rocket scientist who was currently living in the United States. But who knew how long he would stay there, Nazis weren’t exactly known for their loyalty. A mere glance at the file had informed him that his mark had been abandoned by her father when she was seven years old before the Red Army had liberated Berlin. A coward. But, then again, all Nazis were cowards. 

His assignment would be a deep cover with the objective of gaining Gaby Teller’s --known as Gaby Schmidt-- trust in order to make sure that if she heard from her father, or any news about him, it would be shared with Illya who would then pass it along to the KGB. This was a far more subtle approach to gaining information, but the illegal program was already polishing its skills in that area and proving extremely successful. One agent who had left for the United States in 1955 already had three wives who worked in various government agencies of particular interest to the Soviet government. It was both impressive and mildly distasteful to Illya, but he kept his opinions to himself. 

He did not know how long this assignment would last. It could be a month, could be a year, could even be several years. The only thing he knew was that he would need to gain Gaby Teller’s trust. No easy task considering her background. 

The cover was fairly straightforward, as they always tended to be, and would be fleshed out as needs demanded. He was a Russian architect with a focus on mathematical symmetry who had come to help with the wall. If all went as planned his relationship with Gaby would progress to the point that he would “ask” for a permanent position in Berlin to be close to her. But first, he had to actually meet her instead of just studying her file. There was only so much to be gleaned from surveillance.

It was a simple scene. He entered her garage asking for the best mechanic they had. His accented German gave away his heritage and he could see the distrustful glances and glares from the various mechanics. From a backroom she appeared, dressed in grease covered overalls, a ratty yellow scarf in her hair to keep it out of her eyes, and smudges of oil on her skin. She was beautiful and for a brief moment Illya was caught off guard. He had seen her picture of course, but there was something about her that sparked in person. 

She gave him an appraising look, blatantly looking him over from head to toe to head again, before saying, “What appears to be the problem comrade?” 

“My car,” he replied, and before he could elaborate she spoke again,

“Well I would hope so. This is a garage,” and there is so much bite in her words that Illya was convinced she would spit venom if she possessed the ability. Like a snake or one of those odd river frogs. 

“As I was saying. I seemed to have had a run in with a tank. My car did not win the altercation,” he said while taking in every detail and nuance about this small woman before him. She looked delicate but he had no doubt that if he moved too fast he would find himself being beaten with that old wrench in her hand. Not that she would win but, Illya admitted to himself, she would probably do some significant damage. 

“So you want me to bring your car back from the dead?” Gaby asked, her eyebrows rising. 

“Not dead. Perhaps on sick bed. Will you look at it?” Illya asked, gesturing to the alleyway where his cover car stood, a mess of near crushed metal and scratched paint. 

She winced when she saw the amount of damage. “What has he done to you?” she muttered to the car, giving it a preliminary check, clucking as things didn’t work as they should or didn’t work at all. 

After nearly twenty minutes of her poking and prodding the vehicle Illya asked, “So will you take the job?”

“Are you sure you want her fixed? You could sell her for parts and probably make enough to buy a car that doesn’t look like it tried to rear end its way through the wall,” came the response from under the hood. 

“Let us say the car has sentimental value. Will you fix it?” Illya asked again, trying to lock her down. 

She contemplated the car while chewing on her bottom lip. Finally she replied, “If I do this it won’t be cheap and it won’t be quick. Parts aren’t always easy to come by and she needs a lot of work.” Gaby crossed her arms and leaned back a little before turning to look at Illya. “Are you sure you don’t want to sell her for scrap?”

“I’m sure,” Illya replied. “We will figure out time and price now that you will be working on it. You will be working on it, yes?’

“Well,” she nearly sighed, “I am the best. Gaby Schmidt,” she introduced herself, holding out her hand. 

It filthy but Illya knew he was being tested so he grasped her hand firmly. The hand he held was surprisingly delicate and yet firm. He almost didn’t want to let go of the warmth after she loosened her firm grip. No false fronts of weakness from her. Good, Illya thought, it was good for a woman to be strong. 

“Illya Kuryakin,” he responded in kind.

“Well Mr. Kuryakin,” the woman who would now become his life for the foreseeable future, “judging by your accent you’re a long way from home. What brings you to Berlin?” 

“I’m an architect. The authorities wanted an expert opinion on a portion of the wall.” 

Gaby tensed and it was like a sheet of ice feel between them and what tentative comradery they might have had ended. “I see,” was all she said before heading back into the garage. 

“I’ll have a better idea about cost and time by next Friday. Come by then,” the young woman said, waving him off and leaving Illya to stand awkwardly in the middle of a garage full of distrustful Germans.

As he headed out onto the darkening streets Illya admitted that it could have gone better. But, he consoled himself, it had the promise of a beginning. He just needed to apply the right social pressure, the right amount of charm, and he should have no problem with Ms. Teller. Well, no more trouble than usual, and it would be an excellent exercise in undercover work. Perhaps when he retired he would become a teacher at the academy and use this assignment as a case study. But first, he need to focus on the task at hand; becoming ingratiate into Gaby Teller’s life. Cultivating her as an asset would take time and with this assignment all he had was time.

And a mangled car.


	2. The First Not-a-Date Date

“You are joking,” Illya said, looking at the general estimate for the car repairs. The cost didn’t really matter because the government would be paying for it, but Illya was in the roll of someone who, while they did well for themselves, would feel the pinch in his pocket from this outrageous bill.

“I told you it would be cheaper and easier for you to sell that car for scrap but you insisted. Between getting the parts, which could takes weeks or months depending on the supply chains, and the labor that is the price you are looking at,” Gaby replied, completely unfazed as she viewed him from behind her desk. The desk was far too large for her and had clearly belonged to her foster father, but she owned her space. And her eyes held a challenge in them that made Illya a bit hot under the collar. 

“But this is not the final cost,” Illya clarified.

“No. There might be more labor involved, “ Gaby replied. And then she smirked, “And should not the humble laborer be compensated justly comrade?” 

Illya just gave her look over the estimate he had been pretending to peruse. Her smirk broke into a full blown grin at Illya’s annoyance. 

“You could always try to find another garage to do the work, although I doubt there will be much difference in cost. But there will be a difference in the quality of work,” Gaby said, egging him on as she watched him, her brown eyes taking in his large frame encased in a casual suit of slate grey. He was, she silently acknowledge to herself, very attractive. But, in the far back of her mind, Gaby would always wonder if she found him attractive because she had been taught at a young age that blue eyes and blond hair were the ideal, or if she objectively liked how he looked. 

“No, it is fine. If you are as good as you say you are,” Illya responded with his own challenge. 

“The best you ever had,” the petite mechanic replied, confident in her abilities, her confidence in every line of her body.

Oh Illya was going to enjoy this assignment. He was going to enjoy it very much.

“Since I am new to Berlin,” Illya began, “perhaps you could show me where I could get a decent cup of coffee. Or at least a strong cup of tea.” 

One of Gaby’s eyebrows quirked upward. It wasn’t a date but it danced dangerously close to one. Gaby took in the large man once again and thought about it. It was only coffee after all, not a proposal of marriage.

“Fine. Meet me in an hour at the corner of Kurchistrasse,” Gaby agreed, standing up and preparing to get back to work. 

Illya felt a burst of pleasure as Gaby agreed to meet with him. For the mission, he reminded himself, this was for the good of the mission.

“I will be there,” Illya replied, standing up and following Gaby out of the office area.

“Don’t be late,” Gaby called as she sauntered away from him.

While Illya could admit to being slightly annoyed that Gaby seemed to be developing a habit of walking away from him, he privately admitted to enjoying watching her walk away. From some of the looks the other mechanics were sending towards her swaying hips Illya was not alone in his appreciation. He glared at one particularly blatant starer until he turned his eyes back to his work. 

He left the garage feeling remarkably satisfied. And nervous. He had not expected nervousness to enter into the picture. But then again, he mused, Gaby was a beautiful woman and anyone who wouldn’t be nervous about having a near date with her was either an idiot or blind.

*******

When Gaby shows up to their meeting spot Illya has to swallow hard. It’s the first time he’s seen her outside of her garage work coverall and he’s having a hard time thinking coherent thoughts. She dressed in capri pants that show off her toned calves, and a short sleeved button up shirt that hugs her a little too well and her hair scarf is a bright blue. Her fingers are still stained with black from the motor oil but it only adds to her charm. 

“Illya,” she calls and he finds a feeling of warmth blooming in his center. He lets himself sink into his cover, an architect who works on the wall who just happens to be falling in love with an East Berlin car mechanic. He ignores how honest most of that sentence sounds.

“Gaby,” he acknowledges, “So where is this mysterious coffee house?”

“Follow me,” she grins and gestures for him to follow her lead down a narrow alleyway where a few clothes hang on laundry lines overhead. It is not a place where he would expect Gaby to be at ease but she moves with surety. 

They end up outside a little hole in the wall place, tucked in between brick and old, aged wood. 

“Gunter brews the best coffee this side of the wall,” Gaby tells him as they enter a small cramped shop. It is not the most glamorous of places. Dusty newspapers lay on nearly every surface in the dimly lit shop and Illya spots an old tabby cat lounging on one of the rickety chairs by a window. It’s charming in a way, and Illya can see why Gaby would like this place. There is a strange feeling of being disconnected from the outside world in here, and sometimes it’s good to escape your own reality. 

Gaby instructs him to find a table while she gets them their coffee, pausing briefly to give the fat cat a chin scratch before chatting with a hunched man with a long grey beard. 

He examines the newspapers on the table he’s chosen and he is surprised to see The New York Times from the 1940s underneath German and Russian publications. He makes a note of it in case he needs to apply pressure to this Gunter fellow in the future. 

“Try this,” Gaby says as she returns with two mugs that are slightly worse for wear. She holds his mug out to him and he lets himself gently slide his fingers against her as he takes the steaming beverage. Almost like it's an accident. The brief touch of flesh meeting flesh.

She looks at him in anticipation as he brings the mug to his face but he decides to tease her instead of drinking it.

“What, no arsenic?” Illya jokes as Gaby rolls her eyes.

“Just try it,” she demands and he takes a sip of the better then average brew. “I told you it was the best coffee in Berlin,” she remarks, smug in her one-up-manship of the Russian.

Illya just nods in confirmation before taking another sip. They sit in quiet for a few minutes, neither of them compelled to talk in a silence that does not feel oppressive. 

“So,” Gaby says after a while, “what made you want to be an architect?” 

“What made you want to be the most expensive mechanic in Berlin?” Illya replied. 

“You first,” was the near teasing response.

After a moment Illya began, “I like to build. During the war I saw whole cities destroyed. Blocks of apartments, government buildings, hospitals, all obliterated and reduced to rubble. After the war I used to watch as the people began to rebuild what they had lost and I liked the idea of creating instead of destroying. It is easy to knock a building down, but to build a place where people will live is much more rewarding.” 

Gaby hummed before replying, “If you like to build homes it seems strange that you would be working on the wall.” 

“Not at all,” came Illya’s response, “It is like an apprenticeship of sorts. If the government likes my work I will be able to work on larger state projects.”

“So it’s a stepping stone,” Gaby mused, “How industrious of you.” 

“And you? How did you become a mechanic?” Illya asked, enjoying this not-a-date date far more than he probably should. 

“My father,” she replied, “it was his garage and since I was his only child he taught me everything he knew. I used to dance,” she added, a little bit softer, her eyes cast downward, “but then the wall.” And the rest of her statement faded into the silence of the near empty shop. Before the wall things were different, was the underlying truth but she did not say it out loud. Especially not to a Russian working on it.

“And you enjoy it?” Illya asked, bringing the conversation back again, “Fixing cars?” 

“Cars are a lot less work than people,” she explained, her gaze rising to meet his once again, “It’s much easier to replace a broken part in an engine then to replace a broken part in a person.”

It was Illya’s turn to hum in agreement and their conversation faded into contemplative silence once again.


	3. The First Date

It took nearly a month for her to agree to go on an actual date with him. During that time while he was wearing down her defenses, he bugged her apartment, tapped her phone line and he knew her mail was being screened by another agent because he was given updates on her correspondence. It was a strange thing to know so much about another person and yet still learn new things just by talking to them.

Even before the first date, Illya had established a routine in which he would come to the garage every other day or so to watch Gaby work on his car while chatting with her over the noise of the machinery. It was nice. And sometimes, just for a brief moment or two, Illya would forget that he was not an architect who just happened to find himself attracted to Udo Teller’s daughter. 

She would be an easy woman to love, he had mused as he walked her home one night. Strong, fierce, smart, and very, very beautiful. It would be a lucky man who would earn her loyalty, conveniently forgetting the fact that he was supposed to be the one earning that loyalty. If he wasn’t careful he would find himself giving his heart away before he knew it. 

Their first official date is a strange one by anyone's reckoning, but it works for them. Part of the wall needs to be torn down due to structural anomalies and then replaced. Illya manages it so that Gaby has a chance to knock down some of the wall. The wall that she hates. 

It is an odd scene. A large Russian man sits behind a small German woman as he guides her through how to use a wrecking ball. His hands cover hers-- gently, ever so gently-- and his breath is in her ear as his accented German explains how this is supposed to work. It is an intimate picture of destruction.

She is methodical and furious as she wreaks as much destruction as she can on an inanimate object. Illya doesn’t stop her, just lets her smash her rage and aggression and pain into the concrete over and over and over again. At the end of it she leans back against him, breathing heavily like she has just run a marathon, and worn out. 

They say nothing. But Illya brushes a loose curl away from her face and give her a gentle kiss on her cheek while he moves his hands to her waist. He holds her as one would hold a butterfly and he thinks there is something utterly beguiling in her vulnerability. 

*********

They are having dinner one night at Illya’s apartment. He had offered to cook for her and Gaby had been curious about where he lived. It’s not really his apartment but one that has been dressed to appear like an architect’s living space by other agents. It's a clever piece of fiction carefully crafted. There are sketches of various buildings and books about architectural theory littered throughout the place. 

He and Gaby are nearly finished eating when there is a knock on the door. Well, more like a pounding. They both went deadly still for a moment and there is a brief moment when they lock eyes. She does not want him to open the door, he knows he will have to. As he stands to open it she reaches out and grasps his hand, holding tight, for just a moment. Illya looks at her, seeing the fear in her eyes, and nods before she drops her grip on him.

When he opens the door he is confronted by five Stazi officers. He almost feels insulted. Did they really think five would be enough? But he plays along to this charade of power. He allows himself to be yelled at, to be beaten before Gaby as she screams at them to stop. She tried to jump on one of the officer’s backs to keep him from being hit and she receives a black eye for her trouble. They leave Gaby on the floor of his apartment while they drag him away to a police van.

His is thrown in with little grace and he memorizes each of these men’s faces. The officer who hit Gaby would have to die. Illya made a mental note of him before he was led into an interrogation room where his handler, Oleg, was waiting for him.

“What was the point of that?” Illya asks in Russian, slipping into his mother tongue, as Oleg unlocked his cuffs. 

“Your operation has been going well but it has been in a holding pattern. We needed to give Ms. Teller a push so that she will feel bound to you. And, it shows that you have no loyalty to the Stazi, letting her put more trust in you then she might have otherwise,” Oleg explained, “But you already knew that or you wouldn’t have let them hit you so many times.” 

“One of them hit her,” Illya practically growled. Oleg raised his eyebrows.

“She fought for you?” Oleg asked, “You must be closer then I thought.”

“How do you know this will not scare her off? After all, she might think I am betraying her in some way right now. She might think that anyone who attracted the Stazi’s notice is not worth the price of knowing,” Illya pointed out before he spit out the blood that had filled his mouth from a cut. 

“It will be up to you to make sure our query does not go to ground. But I think you and I both know that Ms. Teller is not one to be easily intimidated,” Oleg remarked. 

Illya said nothing, just crossed his arms. 

“Now, let us debrief and plan,” Oleg continued, bringing out several files. Illya got to work.

***

In the morning he was released from Stazi custody, his ribs still smarting from where one of the officers had kicked him with his steel toed boots, and his mind filled with facts and plans. He knows he looks worse for wear as anyone who had endured a night in the Stazi’s gentle care would be. In his case he had been set upon by various officers while Oleg observed. And if one guard who had happened to lay hands on his woman had ended up with a broken neck, well, that was just the price of doing business. 

When he enters his apartment he is surprised to see Gaby sitting there, eyes trained on the front door, her face a picture of wary misery, as the right side of her face darkens with a fresh bruise. He feels a fresh burst of anger that someone had dared hurt his woman. 

“Illya,” she cried, launching herself at him. He didn’t even mind the small amount of pain that comes from her too tight hug. Then she is ushering him in and inspecting him for injuries all the while questioning him, “What did the Stazi want? Are you alright? What did they do? Are you in trouble?”

“Shh,” Illya says, pulling her to sit in his lap on the threadbare couch, “shh, I’m alright. Just a few bruises, that’s all.”

But Gaby was clearly not satisfied with that explanation as she made a noise in the back of her throat and her eyes looked straight into his, demanding answers.

“It was a mistake,” he tell her after briefly clearing his throat, “Not that the Stazi will ever admit it. They thought I would know about a guard’s smuggling operation. A guard I had never even met. When it was clear I didn’t know anything they let me go with a warning.”

“I could kill them,” she growls, making him take off his shirt so she can examine the damage personally. Despite her fury she is gentle as she touches the bruises and cuts. “They are no better than the Gestapo.” 

“Shh,” Illya says again, cupping her face in his hands gently brushing his thumb underneath her bruise. Their eyes met and held and then, as if pulled by some force of nature, they are kissing. It is beautiful, and gentle, and there are undercurrents of passion that Illya savors as he drinks in Gaby’s mouth. She does not shied away from him but clutches him instead, her hands raking through his hair as she pushes herself against his bruised body. 

Every single hurt was worth it for this one moment and Illya vowed to himself, in his heart of hearts that no one ever saw, that he would never let Gaby go.


	4. The First Fight

His encounter with the Stazi had the unexpected benefit of earning him the grudging respect and acceptance amongst Gaby’s fellow mechanics. Suddenly he is not longer the invading Russian, but just another bastard who had the unfortunate luck to get caught by the secret police. Many of the mechanics extend friendly overtures, perhaps realizing that he is not going anywhere unless Gaby forcibly ejects him from her life. 

One young apprentice, Hans, is actually halfway decent at chess and Illya finds himself engaged in drawn out battles over the checkered board while they argue which nationality invented what. Eventually it will dissolve into both of them just saying “Russia.” “No, Germany.” “No. Russia.” Gaby just rolls her eyes whenever she sees them bickering and ignores them until their game is finished. 

Illya has sunk into this new role of his, this new life, and he sometimes has to remind himself that it’s not real. He isn’t some Russian architect wanting to make a name for himself, he is a KGB agent who is being strategically placed to hunt down an escaped Nazi. When he thinks too much about it he makes himself go for a run through the winding streets of Berlin and past the wall that looms so large in the Berliners’ collective conscience. 

He doesn’t disagree with the mission. What he is doing is vitally important for the safety of all people in the Soviet Union and he will do what he must to keep his people safe. But it is the first time he’s having difficulty distancing himself. He likes his life here in Berlin, surprisingly enough. He likes his morning jogs take him to Gunter’s where he has a cup of coffee and reads the news from at least a decade ago. He likes the friends he’s made at the wall construction and the mechanic’s in Gaby’s garage. He likes being with Gaby. He likes that most of all. 

He finds that the lines between who he is and who he must be and who he wants to be are becoming blurred until he can no longer pick them apart. Sometimes he finds himself imagining that this is really his life. An ordinary job, an ordinary future, an ordinary life. But then he’d glance down and see his father’s watch and he’d remind himself why he was here.

***

A few weeks after the Stazi incident, when all the bruises and cuts had healed, he walks into Gaby’s apartment just as she throws a glass at the wall. It shatters with surprising force and his reflexes kick in as he reaches for a gun that isn’t there.

“Get out,” Gaby shouts. Her pain is raw and it hangs off of her like ripped flesh. 

“What is wrong?” Illya asks as he refused to leave, moving closer to her.

“I mean it Illya, leave,” Gaby spits out, her fury radiating off of her. She’s almost shaking with it. 

When Illya made no move to leave but instead made a soothing sound Gaby snarled, “Fine,” before running at full speed and tackling Illya to the ground.

What followed was a full out fight that mirrored wrestling in the way a fun house mirror reflects a person’s image. They shoved each other into a wall, they caused the side table to break, and something else shattered that neither of them care to examine. Illya does not want to hurt Gaby but he’s beginning to suspect she may hurt him.

It ends with Gaby pinning Illya down on the floor, her fist clenched in his shirt and he’s holding onto her wrists. Her breath is harsh and there is a certain wild pain in her eyes that she cannot disguise. Illya moves his hands up from her wrist to her shoulder and then down her back. And then she practically collapses on his chest, and he can feel that she’s trying not to cry. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into her hair as he rubs her back gently, wanting to sooth whatever caused her to enter flight or fight mode, “It’s okay, it will all be okay.”

“I hate them,” Gaby finally says, her voice half muffled in Illya’s shirt. The them could refer to anyone but Illya had a sinking feeling she means the Soviets, “Michael was picked up by the Stazi last night because he had an American record. One. Just one. And now he will be doing two years of hard labor because of a song. A damn song. He’s going to be locked up for years because of a damn record while the real criminals walk the streets in uniforms.”

She hiccuped and the tears that were threatening began to leak out. “And I received a letter from Uncle Rudi today. He’s living it up in Rome while I rot here behind this damn wall. But it’s okay Gaby, I’m sure you’ll figure a way out. Not even an offer to help. Nothing. I cannot even rely on family. Not that I ever could.”

Her words fade but her tears don’t, and she turns to bury herself more firmly into Illya’s chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs to her, his hands making soothing circles on her back, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Please don’t leave,” she whispers in a voice so soft it’s almost as if the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I won’t,” he vowed, “I won’t ever leave you.”

And in a moment of rushing clarity he knows he is lost. His heart belongs to this little mechanic who would fight the sun if she could and he’s not sure he wants it back. She’ll probably take much better care of it then he ever could.

Against his chest, her breathing slows and she slips, ever so gently, into sleep.


	5. The First Time

The first time they sleep together it happens like this. They are at her apartment having an after work drink and laughing about something that had happened with Frederick, Pamela and an illegal chicken, when Illya fades into happy silence. He is watching Gaby, just watching her, with nothing but joy in his soft blue eyes. 

“What?” Gaby asks with a laugh before taking another drink.

“Do you still dance?” Illya asks, his words slightly fuzzy with the good mood and the good drink. 

Gaby shrugs, “Sometimes.” Then she leans in close to the large man like she’s about to tell him a secret, “I was first soloist you know.”

And then Illya is laughing and she’s laughing and it feels warm inside of his heart.

“Will you dance for me?” he asks.

“Right now?” she replies.

Illya nods.

Gaby cocks her head to look at him as if appraising his sincerity. “All right,” she finally says, “Wait here.” 

And then she’s off to her bedroom, digging around in some corner of her closet and dresser drawers.

“Are you lost?” Illya calls out.

“You’ll never believe it,” Gaby calls back, “I’ve found the lost doorway to the Black Forest. It was hiding in my closet this whole time.”

Illya can’t help but laugh at the teasing. He feels lighter than he’s felt in years. 

“Close your eyes,” Gabys calls once again from the bedroom, “and don’t open them until I tell you to. No peeking.” 

Making a show of it, Illya huffs and sighs before covering his eyes with one of his hands. After a few minutes, all right one minute, he asks, “Can I look now?”

“No,” came Gaby’s yell, and then something falls over. 

“What about now?” Illya asks again, biting back his own laughter.

“If you don’t do as you’re told I’m going to leave and go drink with Hans,” Gaby warns, moving a few things around, occasionally glancing at Illya to make sure his eyes were still covered. 

“I’ll be good,” he promises.

“All right,” she says after a few minutes, “You can look now.”

Illya drops his hand and then has to swallow hard. Gaby is wearing her old ballet tutu with her pale pink ballet shoes tied with ribbons around her legs. Her hair is pulled into a dancer’s bun but a few tendrils of dark hair have escaped to frame her face. He’s never been more aroused in his life. 

Gaby moves gracefully as she sets up the record, gets into place, waits for an agonizing moment of silence. Then the music begins and she moves.

She is beauty in movement and Illya dare not move lest he disturb this vision before him. She is dancing the part of the white swan and it is heartbreaking in the best possible way. Her leg extends, she twirls in a cloud of tulle and flesh, and she leaps into the air with the precision of years of elite training. For a moment, for the dance, there is nothing but Gaby and Illya and this magic that she is creating with her body. 

How did he get so lucky, he cannot help but think to himself. He is receiving a private show from one of the best ballerinas in the world. And she’s doing it because he asked. How did he get so lucky?

It goes on but not nearly long enough. Before Illya is ready to relinquish this vision before him the music ends and she takes her bow, before glancing up at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

“What did you think?” she asks, rising out of her bow. 

Illya swallows and he cannot help but be serious, “I think the world is missing a great talent. You were beautiful.”

Gaby’s grin full of mischief slips into a soft smile that’s almost shy. She walks over to where Illya is sitting and with grace cups his face in her small work worn hands and kisses him. A gentle kiss. But it quickly explodes into so much more. 

Soon he is kissing every part of her he can reach and she is encouraging him while desperately trying to rip his shirt from his body. There is several moments of clothes being yanked off and being discarded to various regions of the floor while they stumble into Gaby’s bedroom. He’s never been in this room before but as far as he’s concerned it’s the god damn Kremlin. 

Illya stands bare while Gaby is left in nothing but her pointe shoes. As she reaches down to remove them Illya grabs her hands to stop her.

“Let me,” he says as she settles down into her bed. Her flick of her fingers clearly indicate “be my guest.” He is more than happy to. 

He kneels before her and slowly, ever so slowly, raises her right leg to rest on his shoulder as he presses a brief kiss into her upper calve. The ribbon slowly becomes unwound as Illya’s mouth follows its progress before kissing the top of her foot as he removes her ballet shoes. Then he repeats the process with the other foot. 

Illya can hear Gaby’s heavy breathing, can smell her aroused musk, and his dick feels as hard as a railroad spike. But he doesn’t want to rush this. He wants to make it count. Has to make it count. 

He kisses his way up her leg until he reaches his prize. Her beautiful pink cunt surrounded by soft brown curls. He tries to go slow but her taste is addicting and she eggs him on as he sucks her clit until she comes all over his tongue. 

She drags him up onto the bed and forces him onto his back as she straddles him, her wet center sliding down over her his near painful erection. It is like a perfect symphony the way their bodies move and respond to one another. The change from soft to hard to soft again is met with unfettered desire and it takes all of Illya’s training to hold off his release until Gaby clenches around him. When she does, and he finally lets go, he swears he can see stars.

In the afterglow he is more then happy to lay there, holding Gaby in his arms while his softening cock has yet to leave the warm, moist home it’s found. She nuzzles into his chest and he finds himself making mental promises that will require his loyalties to be tested should anything happen. 

He vows to protect her, to honor her, and to do what he must to make her happy. 

Then Gaby emits a little contented sigh and snuggles into the crook of Illya’s neck, and all he can do is smile at this woman of wonders before he too drifts off into sleep.


	6. The First Trip

He discovers as the months get colder that his sweaters will occasionally go missing only to magically reappear on a short mechanic. He uses the camera that he has for both surveillance and his cover to take pictures of various buildings to document the cycle of sweater theft. When he lays down the evidence before Gaby in late November she just laughs and laughs despite his protestations that he is being serious. 

His sweaters continue to be stolen.

****

The first time she sees him lose control is on a dark and dreary day in December when the clouds look at though they will smother the occupied city. 

Oleg had called and in a conversation that lasted barely a minute Illya was informed that his mother --the woman who had sacrificed everything for him-- was dying. Bone cancer. When the line went dead Illya could feel the red descend over his sight. He needed to break something. Hurt something like how he was hurting. 

His apartment was quickly in ruins with furniture being overturned and thrown at the walls that ended up dented from the force. He couldn’t stop.

“Illya,” he heard someone yell. And then again, “Illya!”

“Illya, stop.” And he could feel someone --could feel Gaby-- grabbing his wrists with all the strength she possessed and pushing his hands down to his side. “Calm down.”

They stood like that for several minutes. A large Russian man who couldn’t stop his trembling, a small German woman holding the man together, in the midst of a nearly destroyed apartment. 

She breathed with him and did not let go until the trembling stopped. He didn’t want to hurt her.

He glanced around and felt the same sinking feeling of shame he often felt when he lost control. He’d gotten better. So much better. Yet it still happened. The rages, the violence, the red haze. 

Once his shaking stops she has him sit down on a slightly torn couch now pressed against the far wall, while she went about making him a cup of tea. A cup of good black Russian tea. 

When she returned she handed him the mug without asking anything and sat beside him and waited. Sometimes there were things that you couldn’t talk about, that if you talked about you might disappear in the middle of the night no matter how careful you were, and Gaby did not know if this was one of those times. 

They just sat in silence. But Illya could feel the concern coming from Gaby. Could feel her fear that she tried to hide.

“My mother,” Illya began then stopped. His voice rough and he fought the traitorous urge to cry.

“Yes?” Gaby asked, soft. She was so soft.

“She’s dying.” And it feels like a betrayal to say those words aloud. 

“Oh Illya,” Gaby sighs, leaning into his side and taking his free hand. She holds on tight and he is so, so, so grateful he finds words difficult once again. So he takes a drink of the too strong tea and tries to absorb some of the warmth.

“Can you see her?” she asks, gently, knowing how sometimes you can’t just leave and see your dying loved ones. How governments throw barriers in the way and care not for such petty things as human ties of blood. 

“I’m going to try,” he vows. He has served the KGB faithfully for years, done everything asked of him and more. He has brought honor to his country in the Olympics and with his chess victories. All he asks of them is to let him say goodbye to his mother.

“Will you come with me?” he asks, softly now, to Gaby.

“To Russia?” she asks, surprised, leaning back a bit to look at his face to make sure he’s serious.

He nods. “It’s not too far. Not Siberia. Just a little town outside of Petrograd that doesn’t make it onto most maps. I would like for you to meet her.”

“Illya,” Gaby sighs, “it’s not like they’re going to let me leave Berlin.”

“But,” Illya says, cutting off whatever doubts she’s about to begin enumerating, “if you could go, would you?”

Gaby says nothing, and it’s neither an acceptance nor a denial.

“I don’t even speak Russian,” she finally says.

“That’s fine. It means you won’t be embarrassed when my mother tells me you’re too good for me and that I should marry you before you wise up.” And Illya laughs at how red Gaby turns.

“Wouldn’t she think I was intruding? We haven’t even know each other a year,” Gaby points out, fidgeting with the remains of a pillow. 

“I think she’d like you,” is all he says.

“Well,” Gaby says, standing up, stretching briefly, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll get a visa for a quick trip to Russia unless I get shipped to Siberia.” 

“You never know,” Illya replies, already thinking of the pressure he will apply to Oleg, “miracles happen everyday.” 

“Not here,” is all she says with a sad smile. And then she begins to help him pick up his apartment that he nearly destroyed. 

*******

He gets the visa. Well, two visas. One for him and one for Gaby. She had gaped in total surprise when he had presented it to her with a flourish. 

“How did you manage to get these?” she asks in total surprise as she looks over the official paperwork. 

Illya shrugs and teases, “Secret.” And it was a secret. He will not tell her of going to see Oleg and telling him he wanted two visas to go to Russia to see his mother, possibly for the last time. How he explained that this would be a good way to cement Gaby’s loyalty to him through mutual grief. That this trip would be the turning point in their relationship. How Oleg had agreed, pleased that Illya had suggested it. How even as they spoke his mother was being briefed by a local agent so that his cover would not slip out of place. 

“We leave the 18th?” she asks as she examines the paperwork in depth, “That’s only two days from now!”

“But you’ll come?” Illya asked, suddenly anxious.

“Of course,” she says, looking up at Illya, her expression softening, “Of course I’ll come.” 

***

It is strange to be in Russia with Gaby. Strange, and wonderful. They are walking down the streets of Gorbunki when she mentions that it’s the first time she’s been out of Berlin since she was five or six.

“Really?” Illya asks, near disbelief. It seems so strange that someone as lively as Gaby would have such a stagnated pattern of movement.

She nods. “My father --my real father I mean-- took me to see one of the BDM country retreats. I even got a version of the BDM uniform and the older girls would let me march beside them.” She frowns a little bit, “I’d almost forgotten about that.”

Illya doesn’t say anything and they just keep walking.

***

Illya’s mother is nothing like Gaby expects. In her mind she had always pictured a house proud Russian woman, a little bit short, a little bit soft, who would scold her giant son. But Maria Kuryakin is none of those things.

Despite being near death’s door she still has presence. She is not beautiful, not the in the traditional sense, but she retains a certain kind of handsomeness even with her flesh now clinging too tightly to her bones. And she is nearly as tall as Illya despite how the hospital bed seeks to diminish her. She is proud, fiercely proud, but not of her house, but of her son.

When she greets them with the words, “Guten tag,” Gaby reacts and hits Illya on the arm while he laughs.

“My apologies, Frau Kuryakin,” Gaby says, glaring at Illya, “your son neglected to mention that you speak German.”

“Where do you think he learned it?” Maria laughs, amused at the interaction between this small woman and her son. 

Then Gaby looks up at Illya and notices his eyes are trained on his mother. She reaches up and briefly squeezes his arm before saying, “Why don’t I get us some tea. You two catch up.” And she leaves the room with far more tact than Illya would have employed.

“Mama,” he says, coming over to hug her --gently now, so she doesn’t break-- and kiss her sunken cheeks. He slips into Russian like greeting an old friend. “How are you?”

She flutters her hand as if pushing away such a foolish question. She is dying, that is how she is. 

“She’s very pretty,” Maria says, her voice holding only a hint of the pain she is in. “And smart from what I’ve been told.”

Illya nods and holds his mother’s hand. She grips his with surprising strength. 

“You look at her like your father used to look at me. That is good. But do not be as foolish as your father. Trust very few, and even then, only one, maybe two, completely,” Maria says, dispensing her motherly wisdom with an iron certainty.

“I am glad to see you,” Illya says, “It has been too long.”

“Oh my son,” the dying woman sighs with a smile, “You always did have a tender heart.” 

Illya looks down at their joined hands and asks, “What can I do for you?”

“You’ve already done it,” she says, “You’re here.”


	7. The First Goodbye

They only have a few days in Russia and most of their time is spent at Maria Kuryakin’s bedside. She is pragmatic in the way all true survivors are and she admires Gaby’s ability to wrangle just one more blanket, just one more pain pill, from whichever unfortunate doctor or nurse crosses her path. 

She gives Gaby a scarf, red silk shot through with silver threads, and tells the little German how her husband had given it to her upon the birth of their son. Gaby cannot stop petting the piece of cloth and Maria chortles at her for her lack of subtlety in the love of luxury. 

“You’ll never be a good Russian,” Maria mockingly scolds Gaby.

“Good thing I’m German then,” Gaby responds and Illya can’t help but be happy to be surrounded by his women even if the specter of death hangs over them. 

“You never know,” Maria says, a twinkle of mischief in her eye, “If my son ever finds his courage you might get a Russian name.” 

Gaby goes red and Illya coughs before attempting to change the subject to something--anything--else. Maria allows him to. 

Her time with her son is spent talking about nothing and everything. And sometimes they don’t talk at all. Just sit in silence drinking each other in while sipping weakened tea. They are Russian, they have survived worse than death. But, oh, sometimes the surviving hurts. 

He will not be with her when she dies and it is a bitter piece of truth. 

When he says goodbye for the last time his mother wraps her frail arms around his neck and grips him with surprising strength as she whispers into his ear. 

“When the time comes; _run_.” Then she kisses his cheek before sinking back into her pillow.

***

On the way back to Berlin Gaby holds his hand and he is grateful for the human contact. She too knows about loss. 

When they are laying in Illya’s bed in Berlin, in his apartment that still had dents in the walls, Gaby reaches out to brush his hair away from his face.

“When I was a little girl,” she tells him, showing him a little piece of her carefully guarded heart, “my mother used to read me fairy tales. In them, the orphan always becomes a hero, and the good knight always defeats the evil king.”

“What fairy tale is this?” Illya asks. There is something about the dark and the night that makes these conversations so much more than words.

“I don’t know,” Gaby replies, “Maybe it’s a new story. Or one that never got written down. Maybe it’s not a fairy tale at all, but something new.”

“Did you have a favorite story?” Illya asks, curious in a sleepy way. He can feel her grin denting the pillow.

“Little Red Riding Hood. In the story I was told, when the wolf goes to swallow her she uses a knife to cut open his belly from the inside and saves herself.”

“Are you sure it’s not a Russian story? She is wearing a red hood,” Illya teases and he accepts the playful hit to his chest as he laughs. 

“Did your mother ever tell you bedtime stories?” she asks into the dark. 

“My father did,” Illya admits, turning to stare up at the ceiling. “He used to tell me all about Baba Yaga, the witch who lived in the forest with a house that stood on chicken feet.”

Gaby hummed a little, in the back of her throat, and then moved to snuggle into Illya’s chest.

“Maybe one day,” she says, soft and sleep heavy, “you can tell me them.”

And even though she cannot see, Illya nods. 

~~ 

It is approaching a year when Oleg tells him the news: Udo Teller is missing. Not just missing, but apparently vanished to the point that the CIA doesn’t even have a clue where he might be. For being the supposed powerhouse of intelligence agencies the Americans can’t even keep track of one Nazi scientist that works for them.

He is told to continue as he has been, but to keep an extra vigilant eye on any communication Gaby might receive in regards to her father. Illya nods but privately thinks it will be a cold day in hell before Udo Teller reaches out to his daughter. Knowing Gaby as he does, Illya would be less surprised if Gaby shot Teller herself then helped him.

One change he’s made to his meets up with Oleg is makes him jog next to him for a stretch in the park while they exchange information. Aside from being a tactically sound way to relay information without gaining suspicion and to prevent eavesdroppers, Illya feels a vindictive pleasure in watching the older man struggle to keep up with him. 

“Don’t you think it’s time for your relationship to progress?” Oleg asks, trying not to gasp for air as they jog through a row of thick oak trees. Gaby would like this place and Illya makes a mental note to take her on a picnic here when the weather is nicer. 

“In what way?” Illya asks, not even struggling to breath. 

“Move in or marry,” Oleg replies, shortening his response as much as he can to save much needed breath. 

Illya shrugs. A truly impressive move considering he is in perpetual motion. 

“We have not discussed it. My time with the wall is supposedly almost done. I will need to introduce my staying here before we talk of moving in together,” Illya explains. Plus, he adds in his head, Gaby would want their relationship to have been at least a year before she even considered accepting a ring. She is gun shy about certain commitments and considering the veritable cowards that have been the men in her life, Illya can’t exactly blame her. 

“Okay,” Oleg gasps and then has to fall away to catch his breathe. Illya just smirks and continues his jog back to his apartment where he knows Gaby will be there, glaring at a pot something that vaguely passes for coffee. An extra benefit to jogging means his briefings have gotten satisfyingly shorter. 

When Illya returns to his apartment he is greeted to the sight of Gaby standing before the coffee pot in one of his older shirts. It goes to her knees and Illya feels a rush of fierce possessiveness. Gaby’s face is accusing as she continues to watch the brown liquid drip down, completely ignoring the sweaty Russian in the room. 

Illya comes up behind Gaby and hugs her around her waist. “Did the coffee commit some crime against you?” Illya asks. 

“It did not magically brew itself,” she grumbles at him, refusing to look away from the pot. Illya doesn’t even bother to muffle his laughter. 

“I will call Stazi at once. This crime cannot stand,” Illya teases and good naturedly accepts the elbow to his gut and Gaby’s eye-roll. 

Once Gaby has a drunk half a cup of the sludge and has made Illya a cup out of grudging affection he says, “I did not want to tell you in case it all came to nothing. You know how my time working on the wall is nearly finished.” Gaby nods and he can see her tense as if waiting for a blow. Another goodbye. Another broken promise. “I put in a permanent transfer request.” Her eyebrows shoot to the sky. “It was granted.”

“You’re staying?” Gaby asks, putting her mug down.

“Yes,” Illya says, unable to read her reaction. 

“Really staying? It’s final?” she clarifies.

“Really. I’m really staying here.” And before he can finish the sentence she has lept into his arms and is clinging to him tightly. 

“You didn’t really think I’d leave you, did you?” Illya asks. His tone is light but there is a vein of seriousness underneath his words. 

She doesn’t say anything but buries her head into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Finally, she shakes her head just a little bit. 

Illya clucks a little before kissing the top of her head and enjoys this morning of terrible coffee and arms filled with a strong and vulnerable woman.


	8. The First Gift

He surprises her with a gift a week after the announcement that he is staying. She makes a production out of opening the rectangle flat box and he makes a production out of being smug.

When she finally shifts the fine tissue paper away to reveal what lies beneath she is speechless.

She is greeted by a beautiful orange and white dress that is clearly from the West. “Oh Illya,” she says, nearly breathless as she hesitates to touch the lux fabric, “It’s beautiful.”

She picks it up to put it against her body. It’s going to be a perfect fit, she just knows it. Then she sees the tag and her heart nearly stops. “Dior?” 

“Try it on,” is Illya’s reply but he won’t stop grinning at her reaction.

She doesn’t even hesitate to strip off her clothes and slide into the new dress. It fits her perfectly and suddenly she looks like she belongs strolling the streets of some Western boulevard, not stuck behind an engine in grey washed East Berlin. 

“It’s perfect,” she says, giving a twirl.

“So you like present?” Illya asks, silently demanding praise. 

“I love it,” Gaby says, coming over to stand between his spread legs on the couch. She puts her arms loosely around his neck and gives him one, two, three kisses. 

“But Illya,” she asks, her brows coming together in concern, “wherever did you get it?”

“Secret,” he tells her before pulling her mouth down for more kissing. 

They both know she cannot wear it out of the apartment. She would be arrested for owning western goods and issuing propaganda for the capitalist west. But it’s something nice for her to enjoy. Something bright and cheerful and free from all the strings of life in Berlin. 

It also supports the little traitorous whisper that there might be hope to leave this place behind the Iron Curtain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He goes ring shopping and apparently Gertrude, Hans’ sorta girlfriend sees him, and suddenly the whole damn garage is elbowing each other and giving him knowing looks. He hates them all. It’s not like he bought one. He was just looking. 

“Heard you were staying,” Heinrich, an older mechanic missing two fingers on one hand and possessing a bad limp and a worse temper, tells him. Illya is waiting for Gabby outside of the garage to walk her home. It is a nice routine and he does not want this sour old Nazi --a frontliner at Stalingrad who only survived due to an injury-- to interfere with it. So Illya just nods.

“Also heard about the ring. Well, the possibility of a ring,” the grizzled on man says. He looks Illya over and, despite the fact that he has nearly a foot on the mechanic, Heinrich leans in close to him, his eyes grey steel. “I know all about your kind. She’s too good for you and if by some miracle she says yes know that the minute you hurt her, the minute you step over the line and make her cry, I will kill you.”

Illya resists the urge to break this man’s neck. “So you don’t want an invitation to the wedding?” Illya chooses to reply instead of snapping the rest of the man’s fingers off. 

“I’m watching you,” the old man growls, well earned bitterness seeped into his bones. “A good German girl like that shouldn’t mix with a mongrel Russki, but she’ll learn that herself.” 

Illya admires his self-restraint in only knocking the man out and not killing him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~``` 

Oleg takes him to buy the ring and he hates it because it reminds Illya that this is not real, but Oleg also has surprisingly good taste. 

“You think my wife stays with me because of my looks?” Oleg asks as Illya watches in amazement as the older man discards the sapphires and some overly red rubies, and instead examines some diamonds and friendly near orange stones. 

Illya examines the rings before noticing a good size round diamond surrounded by a ring of light colored rubies. It is perfect. Big enough to show his seriousness and his status, but not so big that it will dwarf her hand. White and red, with a gold band, good Russian colors. Colors of strength. 

Oleg has a cover as well now. He is Illya’s uncle come to visit and to try to convince Illya to come back to Russia. He is some middle of the road government official which can be used later if Gaby and Illya need to move quickly without rising Gaby’s suspicions. Calling the older man uncle should not taste as bitter in Illya’s month as it does. Still, Oleg puts the ring down on the KGB's expense account. 

Illya’s not going to propose for another few months, but it’s always good to be prepared. 

Illya takes Gaby out on a date to meet his “Uncle” Oleg and it is a bit of a surreal experience. Oleg plays the part of the Russian uncle who only knows basic German to perfection. Illya hopes he chokes on his potatoes. 

After they wave “Uncle” Oleg off after helping him back to his hotel because he’s had one too many drinks, Illya and Gaby make their way to her apartment. 

“Speaking of uncles,” she says, leaning into his warmth as a stiff breeze blows, “I wrote to my Uncle Rudi about you.” 

“What did he say?” Illya asks, already knowing the general contents of both letters. 

“You have to understand, I’m his only niece, the last connection to his sister,” Gaby begins.

“He’s not pleased,” Illya concludes from that little introduction.

“He just doesn’t know you,” Gaby protests, “And he has his aristocratic pride. I think he is still hoping I’ll marry a prince or a duke.”

“What good is being an aristocratic when they all interbreed? You are lucky not to have six toes or a blood disorder,” Illya gripes.

Gaby waked his chest. “He’s an old man set in his ways and I’m one of his last living relatives, of course he’s concerned. And,” she hesitates briefly, “you’re Russian.” 

“Ah,” Illya says and he does understand. The rapes, the reprisals, the humiliations. He understands the cultural anger. But just because he understands does not mean he is not annoyed at having it directed at him.

“Well,” he says, after a few minutes of terse silence, “I suppose a family blessing is out of the question.” 

Gaby sighs. “He just doesn’t know you yet. He’ll come around.”

Her uncle was a Nazi so that was unlikely. Illya stopped in the middle of the walkway and turned so that he and his woman were facing each other. “He is not the one I am with,” Illya tells her, “you are. In this relationship there is you and me, no one else. Do you still want to be with me?” 

“Illya,” Gaby says, “of course.”

“Good, because I want to be with you,” Illya tells her before grabbing her hand and resuming their walk. 

“Your uncle seems nice,” Gaby says, almost tentative as they walk in the darkened streets. 

Illya snorts. “He drinks too much.” 

“A potential drinking buddy,” Gaby muses, trying to lessen some of the tension that lingers in the air around them.

“No, you will die. He has a sponge where his liver should be,” Illya explains, and Gaby gives a bark of laughter. “But if you want to drink,” Illya says, leaning close to her, “maybe I come up. We drink, we talk,” he breathed into her ear, “I drink you.”

Gaby’s breath hitches and she nods, her eyes going dewy as she takes Illya’s hand and leads him into her apartment building. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~


	9. Farewells

Oleg shows up at Illya’s work as the large Russian man is examining building plans for a basic apartment block. He is concerned about the plumbing logistics and is making his concerns known to a trembling weed of a German man. When Oleg appears Illya knows something is wrong.

Showing more foresight than most Oleg takes Illya into an empty storage room and closes the door before he reveals his news.

“Your mother,” Oleg says, his words heavy, “She passed away early this morning. I’m told it was peaceful. She will be given a burial fitting a mother of an unsung hero of our nation.” The words have been rehearsed and Illya can hear them but he does not understand them. All he understands is that there is something inside of him that wants to hurt something.

“Get out,” Illya manages to grit out and Oleg does not ask twice. Illya destroys whatever was in that room. Breaks whatever he can find and then breaks it again. When he is finished he looks around and feels nothing but a hollow rage. 

He leaves, deciding to run the long way back to his apartment. Something to cause him to ache and ache and ache. 

It is the afternoon and Oleg must have told Gaby what happened because she shows up at his door with a bottle of some illegal booze. But she doesn’t ask to come in, but instead takes him out. She leads him away from his apartment and they spend nearly an hour walking until Gaby has taken him to the top of a hill overlooking the city. 

They sit in the silence, watching the darkness slip in.

“You can see West Berlin from here,” Gaby says, staring off into the night, “All those people leading ordinary lives.”

Illya doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think Gaby expects him to, but he can see the lights of West Berlin flicker in the distance. It’s soothing in a strange way.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Gaby finally says. “She was a beautiful tough lady who deserved more.” She takes a deep breath, “So I propose we have a drink to Maria Kuryakin.”

Illya allows himself to nod and Gaby unscrews the bottle before taking a deep swig of the burning liquid and passing it over to Illya. He take a long drag welcoming the line of fire the flows down his throat into his belly. 

Then Gaby takes back the bottle and hosts it in the air before going, “To Maria Kuryakin” and dumping out a generous portion of liquor onto the depressed grass. It is a touching gesture and Illya is grateful that Gaby is seeking to give him some closure. 

He wraps his arm around her and pulls her close to his side. And they sit in the dark and cold, just two lonely people who don’t want to be alone. 

“I’m glad she got to meet you,” Illya finally says, once the sun is fully set and they are cast into near darkness.

“Me too,” Gaby replies, nestling more deeply into Illya’s side. And they stayed on their hilltop watching the lights that made up the lives of the West Berliners flicker in the distance.


	10. Just a Little Danger

Hans calls him at his office and Illya knows something is wrong.

“Illya,” the voice on the other end sounds strained, “It’s Hans.”

“What is it?”

“She didn’t want me to call you,” Hans is trying to explain.

“What’s wrong?” Illya demands, not even realizing he is standing up until he feels the phone cord strain.

“Look, you know how her father, not Schmidt, but the other one, was some Hitler errand boy or something.” Nazi rocket scientist with a wealth of destructive information in his brain, but Illya would accept Hitler errand boy as a fitting title for the man. “Well apparently one of his old buddies figured out that Gaby was his daughter and this guy shows up out of nowhere. A real creep too. You should have seen him. Could he look anymore like a Nazi? Anyway, his talk with Gaby didn’t go well and long story short he attacked her.”

“What?” Illya roars.

“She’s all right. I mean, kinda? She’s not dead or anything. And she got some good hits in too before we were able to separate them. Don’t worry, me and the boys put the hurt on him. He won’t be coming back here again,” Hans tries to reassure Illya.

“Where is she?” Illya managed to grit out.

“Oh she’s still here. I mean, Heinrich made her put some ice on a bruise or two, but she’s still here.”

“I’m coming over,” Illya says and then hangs up the phone before Hans tries to tell him how that’s not a good idea.

“Where are you going?” a flustered man who Illya is sure works in accounting asks as the large Russian brushes past him.

“My girlfriend is hurt,” and leaves it at that as he storms out. 

He literally runs to the garage where he sees Hans sporting the beginning of an impressive shiner. He moves past the younger man to find Gaby seated behind her desk, trying to wave away Heinrich as he puts cool clothes on what are going to be some truly startling bruises.

When Gaby sees him she scowls.

“I told Hans not to call you.”

“You need to see a doctor,” Illya says, ignoring the slight twinge he gets in his heart when she says she didn’t want him here.

“I’m fine,” Gaby insists despite the discoloration on her wrists and temple. “I don’t see why you all keep fussing, I’m fine.” 

For a brief moment Heinrich and Illya, the former Nazi and the current Soviet, are united in one purpose.; make sure Gaby is okay and get her out of here.

“Liebling,” Illya says, trying to be gentle as he examines the bruising on her temple. Focus on Gaby. Focus on her care or else he is going to go out of his mind. Once Gaby is taken care of he will contact Oleg and then will make sure that Nazi prick regrets every single day of his life. But later. Now he must focus on Gaby. 

“Illya, weren’t you working on that plumbing issue for the apartment block? Didn’t you have an important meeting today? I’m fine, you shouldn’t miss it,” Gaby tries to switch tactics. It’s a good effort but Illya is now single minded in his goal.

Instead of saying anything he simply picks the small woman up despite her protests. No one in the garage tries to stop them.

Gaby chews his ass out on the entire walk to her apartment and throughout his ministrations on her marked wrists and face. Illya lets her because it means she’s alive. It mean’s she’s awake. It means the blow to the head wasn’t that hard. During the rant she lets slip the name of the man who hit her and Illya becomes even more focused. 

He leaves her to continue ranting while he calls Oleg.

“Uncle,” he says after by way of greeting. A simple way to let him know that Gaby is in the room with him.

“Is that Gaby I hear in the background?” Oleg asks, slipping into Russian, and sounding almost impressed. 

“She’s been hurt,” he says, slipping into Russian as well. “One of her father’s former colleagues came by the garage today and attacked her.”

“Is she alright?” Oleg asks, not out of any real concern but to know how to handle the situation.

“Bruises on her wrists and face,” Illya tells him.

“Is that Uncle Oleg?” Gaby asks, her rage starting to rise, “Are you telling your Uncle what happened? Why? I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Illya snaps in German, covering the mouthpiece although he knows Oleg is probably deriving some some amusement from this, “You were attacked by a Nazi. I’m telling Uncle so that he can let his government friends know about the man, who is clearly deranged, so that they can detain him if he is found.” He turned back to the phone, “His name is Heinrich Scheller. The mechanics roughed him up but he managed to get away.”

“Scheller?” Oleg says, “It will be handled.”

“Thank you Uncle,” Illya tells him before hanging up the phone. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Gaby continues to protest, “He was just a sick old man.”

“He’s a Nazi who attacked you,” Illya points out.

“I’ll be all better within a week,” Gaby told him.

“And what happens if he had a gun or a knife? Would you still be saying ‘oh I’m fine, it’s just a little stab wound, just a little bullet hole?’” Illya asks as he fixes her a drink.

“You’re being dramatic,” Gaby replied, rolling her eyes but accepting the glass of vodka. 

“Says the Prima Ballerina. Were you going to pirouette away from danger?” Illya asks, sitting on the other end of the couch.

Gaby managed to throw her pillow into Illya’s face without spilling a single drop of liquid.

~~~~ 

Scheller is found, interrogated, and executed. The information he gives is worth next to nothing but Illya gets a certain amount of satisfaction in watching him break. 

Oleg is annoyed because Scheller had managed to escape a mental hospital in Poland and make his way to East Berlin undetected and unreported. At least one hospital administrator would be replaced within the day. 

As he watches Scheller’s lifeless body get rolled into a tarp, Illya decides that he will propose to Gaby next month. Spring, after all, is a lovely time for a picnic. 

____________________


	11. The First Steps

Gaby is an addiction and he never wants to get clean. If his handlers knew how much truth was in the roll he was playing they would remove him from the operation. Or perhaps not. Sincerity is difficult to manufacture, and as long as he is loyal to his country above all else there is no need to disrupt years of work. 

He would have to kill anyone who touches her like he does. Pressing kisses from her throat into the valley of her breasts, touching those soft mounds and sucking sharply on her nipples before moving downward to the real prize. When he moves inside of her it is as though the whole world disappears and at the same time they are the entire universe. It is good. Better than good. And they have learned the ways that makes each of them tick. A bite here, a lick there, a lingering kiss as his fingers press into her. 

She is everything he never knew he wanted or needed. He will never give her up. Already he can feel the ties that bind him to his homeland loosening. He loves his country, will always love his country, but his country cannot hug him back, cannot kiss him and whisper into his ear for “five more minutes, please Illya, I’ll do the thing you like.” 

When he asks her to marry him it is underneath the oak trees on a brisk spring day. He even gets down on one knee and presents the ring like he is some bad actor in some western movie that neglects the plight of the people. She accepts the ring and the proposal and she spends most of the day watching the light glint through the stones in between kisses and smiles. 

They move in together. Her flat because it’s closer to the garage and he has a car he can drive to work along with a government stipend of petrol. It is a study in contrasts to blend their lives together. He takes over a corner of the living room where he puts his desk and architectural drawings. Books written in Russian and German and even English lined up in rows like soldiers with photographs of buildings and Gaby and Gaby together with Illya all arranged in order. It is an oasis of order in the vaguely organized chaos of Gaby’s living room where her jacket sprawls on the couch beside a discarded auto magazine. 

They trade off nights to cook. They each have one or two dishes they have perfected and the rest are just slightly above average. If it has been a good week, and Gaby can get the ingredients, she will make a dark rich bread that tastes so much like home it almost hurts. Whoever is cooking dinner that night will get to pick which records to listen to. If it is Gaby it will be illegal American and British records that she got in a trade for car repairs, it if is Illya he will put on the classics. The old composers of Russia who know the bite of winter and love and loss. 

The settle into their own unique pattern and it is a comfort called home that has been unfamiliar to them for many years. They are reclaiming it for themselves. They are carving out what peace and comfort they can. 

One Saturday, when they are lying in bed facing each other, Illya’s fingers teasing an errant curl of Gaby’s, he asks, “Do you want to get married today?”

They have not talked of wedding plans. No grand ceremony or invitations to fictional Russian relatives or to estranged German ones. No wedding gown or special cake. It makes sense for Illya to ask her. They are engaged and now, perhaps even today, they will be married.

Gaby smiles gently and nods, leaning into his hand. He kisses her and he knows the choice is made.

She wears her western dress of orange and white hidden underneath a light blue coat embroidered with white flowers along the neck and cuffs. She ties her hair back with the red silk scarf his mother had given her and his ring shines on her finger. He wears his nicest suit, with the blue tie Gaby had given him saying it brought out his eyes. 

They walk hand in hand to the courthouse, smiles fighting to stay on their faces. Illya has not told his handler his plan and he does not plan to. If Oleg wants to know he can look up the public records. Illya is not hiding anything but he has learned that sometimes the best way to hide is to put something in plain sight. 

When they file the paperwork Gaby doesn’t know that Illya has filed it out perfectly and accurately for his real life, not his cover. The marriage is valid and after only a few minutes before the clerk after over an hour’s wait, the have the paperwork to prove their commitment. 

The lack of ceremony suits them. They know they belong to each other in their heart of hearts, they just got the government involved to legalize the claim. 

Illya takes a picture of Gaby outside the courthouse, a small smile on her lips as he looks into the camera. A passing older lady takes a picture of them together on the steps of the courthouse and she pats Gaby’s cheek gently after she give the camera back and walks away. 

Their wedding feast is eggs and dark bread and apples and the good vodka.

Illya dances, badly but it doesn’t matter, with Gaby in their wedding finery in the middle of their apartment. Swaying side to side as the music drifts over them.

“Hello husband,” Gaby says looking up at him, her happiness in her eyes.

“Hello wife,” Illya replies, looking at her with a tenderness born of love and hope. 

They sway, sway, sway, into the night.


	12. Gaby's Interlude

_Gaby’s Interlude_

_She is working underneath a truly piece of shit vehicle when a man in a nice suit and impeccable high German asks to speak with her. She rolls out for underneath the vehicle and takes in this unassuming man. He is not German, he is too tense in the wrong ways to be German. Still, he is clearly not from the east so Gaby will listen to him._

_When he lays out the facts; her birth father has disappeared and no one knows where he is, the man speaking to her is Alex Waverly a member of British Intelligence, he would like to recruit her and help her get to the West._

_Gaby thinks about it and says, “I have a boyfriend,” and wishes the word boyfriend doesn’t sound as childish as it does._

_“Is it serious?” the man named Waverly asks._

_She considers it. “It might be.”_

_“I tell you what,” the man says, slipping into cultured English, “I promise to get your husband over the wall when the time comes.” Gaby nods, recognizing that the man is placing conditions on his help. A spouse he could get the proper paperwork for, anyone else is a liability._

_She is told to sit and wait. To go about her life as she always has, even as Waverly gives her contact information and code words that she memorizes. If someone comes with information about her father she is to get in touch with Waverly immediately and go from there. Her future beyond the wall, it appears, is tied to her father that had abandoned her. There is a certain irony to that._

_***_

_Illya’s mother should have been a queen. And perhaps she is, only she is the queen of a deposed empire. Some place where strength is beauty._

_She sends her son to fetch them better tea than the hospital provides and holds Gaby’s hand tightly._

_“My boy has a good heart,” she tells the younger woman, “It is why he builds things. But his heart also makes him vulnerable.”_

_“I’m not going to hurt him,” Gaby says._

_The dying woman snorts. “Of course you will. And he will hurt you. That is the way of love,” the woman sighs, “Promise me you will look after him when I am gone. He is a man now, I know, but he cannot always guard his heart.”_

_Gaby nods and tells her, “I promise.”_

_“And you will have children,” the woman says, a twinkle in her eye as she presses her advantage, “Many children you will tell about their Russian grandmother, yes?”_

_Gaby blushes and says, “Now I know why you sent Illya away.”_

_“Are you sleeping together yet?” his mother asks and Gaby nearly chokes on air. “I hope you are. Russian men, they know how to keep you warm in winter.”_

_When Illya returns his mother is cackling and Gaby is doing her best impersonation of a tomato. He decides not to ask._

_***_

_It is a strange thing, keeping this secret about her British connection, especially from Illya. They have become close, their lives interweaving with one another until they are almost impossible to separate. Her hidden connection to the West is a rope. If the Stazi or KGB or anyone really finds out about it, it will be the noose the hangs her. If everything works and goes to plan it will be the lifeline pulling her over the wall. And the closer she gets to Illya the more danger he is unknowingly in._

_So she keeps the secret buried deep inside of herself. Planning what to do. For all that Illya is a good Soviet child he must have some liking for the west. Her beautiful designer dress of orange and white is proof enough of that. And if he doesn’t like her American records it’s because he thinks the lyrics are terrible, not that they are some unholy product sent to corrupt the nation’s youth. She wants to tell him, sometimes it’s on the tip of her tongue, and then she remembers Uncle Oleg. Illya’s bumbling uncle who drinks too much, but who still works in the government. Still has connections. Could still make her disappear without a trace. So she keeps her mouth shut and her secrets to herself._

_One night, when she cannot sleep, she stares down at the prone body of her Russian lover, and makes a decision. She will keep him. Come hell or high water, he is hers._


	13. Setting the Trip Wire

Oleg joins him on his morning jog, doing slightly better but obviously still hating every moment of it.

“We found her father.” There is no question about which she they are referring to. 

“Where is he?” Illya asks, slowing his pace slightly. 

“Rome. Or near it at least. After nearly two years one of our field agents got lucky and managed to get a picture of him entering a vehicle. He was with some interesting people,” Oleg tells him.

“When do we leave?” Illya asks, knowing that Gaby will have to come with him. Rome means Uncle Rudi and it is too much of a coincidence that Udo Teller is showing up in the same city as his former brother-in-law.

“A week. Maybe two. We’ll know more by then,” Oleg tells him. “Lay the groundwork to your fiancee that you are being considered for a very prestigious trip to help the Minister of Culture. On recommendation of your uncle of course.” 

Illya nods and runs ahead. Oleg does not know this, but this will be the last job he does for the KGB.

In his mind he can hear his mother’s last words to him. _When you get the chance; run._

_Run, run, run._

He has his chance at last. 

~~~~~

 

He tells Gaby about a call from his uncle. About how his name has been put forward for a project for heroes of the Soviet Union. She listens as he makes himself babble on about pascal architecture while frying up some potatoes and onions. She pours him a glass of wine, and then one for herself, and places his glass in arm's reach before standing on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“And,” Illya tells her, a smug smile dancing at the corners of his mouth, “I would go to Rome. Maybe even with you.”

“What?” she asks, her movements suddenly stilled. Rome is a dream, a myth, a story told to children in place of fairy tales. “When--when do you find out?”

“A week, maybe two. Depends on the Minister’s mood,” Illya tells her and he sees a spark of hope in her eyes ignite. 

“You’ll get it. You actually have the talent as well as the connections,” Gaby tells him, her voice firm as if she has written the final order herself. 

Illya just laughs. She has no idea how right she is. 

~~~~~~~  
A week later he meets his “Uncle” Oleg in his hotel room and gets a thorough briefing. He is told about Udo Teller’s work and the consequences if that work gets into the wrong hands. The CIA is also involved and it is possible, and Oleg nearly choked when he tells him this, that they might end up teaming up with the Americans to prevent an end of the world disaster. But, Oleg had continued on, things were not that dire yet. 

They go through all of the people that might be involved. From the Vincegurra family to their closest friends and subordinates to who the CIA might send to interfere. Building plans are analyzed and the new tools of the trade are examined and learned. He is given new camera film to detect gamma radiation and he is impressed at the technology his country turns out. 

A more complete dossier on Uncle Rudi is presented and Illya feels disgusted on behalf of Gaby that she has to share a gene pool with that magot. More information on Udo Teller, and Illya finds his hands clenching at the man he’s supposed to save. The coward who had abandoned his wife and child. Leaving them behind to face the stigma of his crimes while he lives a pleasant life full of consumerist pleasure. If his father had tried to do something like that mother would have hunted him down and snapped his neck herself. 

Plans and contingency plans and back-up plans to back-up plans are discussed. In the field it is better to have a goal and then work in whichever way is best to get there. Spywork is not a road, but rather a trek through the dark woods with only wits to lead the way. But more dangerous, at least in the woods you knew the animals wanted to kill you, in the real world humans tended to mask their murderous desires much better. 

He goes over code words and call signs and memorizes them to the point that he mutters them in his sleep. He knows this because Gaby tells him and thinks it’s hilarious that Illya is dreaming about a refrigerator. Still, the crash course continues. 

Two weeks after Oleg had given him the news he gets the go ahead to tell Gaby that they will be going to Rome next week. But before that they are going to cross into West Berlin, the first time Gaby’s been over the wall in years, so that she can go shopping for a wardrobe more appropriate to meeting an estranged uncle who still does not approve of her choice of bed partner. They still haven't told him they're married and Illya knows Gaby is dreading her last relative's reaction. 

When Illya tells her the news ~freedom, freedom, freedom~ echoing under his words of getting the approval, Gaby shrieks and launches herself at her husband, sending him crashing back into the wall before they both slip down in laughter.

“Do you want to see the tickets?” He teases her, watching as her face glows with a certain fierce determination and happiness. 

She practically claws his suit jacket off to find the two tickets tucked away in his inner pocket. When she finds them she holds them like they are precious butterfly wings made of spun gold. In East Berlin, they are probably worth more than that. 

“We’re going,” she breaths, resting her head on Illya’s chest, her eyes never leaving the tickets, “We’re really going.”

Illya make a noise in his throat to show his agreement. 

“But first we go to West Berlin,” he tells Gaby.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Why?”

And Illya gets that smug smile on his face that he always does when he’s about to make some grand gesture that he know will both endear and slightly annoy her. “To go shopping. We’ll see your uncle when we’re in Rome and I don’t want him saying I don’t dress my woman right.”

Gaby rolls her eyes and lifts herself off his chest to look him in the face, “I’m my own woman.”

Illya makes a noise that is neither agreement nor disagreement. “But my wife.”

“Shopping,” Gaby muses, a bit of dark teasing in her words, “what a dirty word for a good communist to say.”

“Perhaps I should be punished,” he replies as he feels one of his wife’s hands slip under his shirt and make its way down into his pants.

“Yes,” Gabby breaths, delicately setting aside the plane tickets and unbuckling his belt, “I think a tongue lashing is in order.”

“Hmm,” Illya agrees, lifting his hips up so Gaby can tug down his pants, his hardened cock springing free, “a hundred strokes at least.”

“At least,” Gaby echos with a smirk of her own before diving down to swallow Illya to the base. And he closes his eyes and drifts to paradise.


	14. The Wall

They pack very lightly from their apartment in East Germany. Tucking little mementos in-between only their best clothing. Gaby takes a few pictures of her childhood, the scarf Illya’s mother had given her, and a few other sentimental trinkets here or there. Illya takes very little besides clothing. Just his father’s watch, which he wears, and the pictures of his and Gaby’s life together. 

There is an unspoken agreement in the air between them: they will not be returning. 

They have said nothing to each other. To even mention it aloud, even to each other, is to invite trouble. Perhaps it is human nature to be superstitious or perhaps it is the result of growing up surrounded by soldiers and barbed wire. But they know. It is in the way their eyes meet as they carefully pack their suitcases, the lingering touch of a hand as a photo is selected to be nestled in among their clothes, the air of nervous anticipation that lingers in their household.

But they are good, very good, and move slowly, normally, so as not to prick any radars. When they drive through the checkpoint, Gaby at the wheel, and they hand over their papers, it is only then that their breathing eases. But not completely. They aren’t in the clear yet.

Gaby wears her white and orange dress, her wedding dress, and Illya wears slacks with a blazer and a short turtleneck. They are an odd study in contrasts as they walk down the street in West Berlin; light and dark, short and tall, German and Russian. Gaby is nearly giddy as she takes in everything while Illya is more occupied with admiring his wife and keeping tabs on their tale. 

When they enter the chic little boutique Illya takes charge, telling the shop-girls to fetch this designer and that designer in this size and that. Gaby laughs and tries to protest that it’s too much.

“Nonsense,” Illya tells her, refraining from mentioning how a Russian husband knows how to treat his wife even if German men did not, “And you are not to look at a single price tag.”

“Oh,” Gaby asks, eyebrows raised, “and why’s that?”

“Because you will scold me and tell me what engine parts you can buy for that amount,” Illya feels a small grin creep onto his face as he pulls Gaby to his side, “Besides, I want to spoil you.”

Gaby pouts for a moment but it’s only pretend, and she is soon distracted by the array of beautiful dresses before her. After years of deprivation and hardship it is like seeing a war orphan in a free candy store. Illya is sure to put forth his opinions and while Gaby rolls her eyes on occasion she defers to him on most of the choices because, quite frankly, her husband knows her body almost better than she does. 

Hours later they leave with bags and boxes of beautiful clothes and accessories for her, and Gaby is pleased to know that Illya will have some suits waiting for him in Rome courtesy of his Uncle Oleg. They drop off their purchases, arranging for extra luggage to be sent to their room, and go to a cafe a few blocks down from their street.

Illya is almost disappointed in how obvious their tale is being. Even Gaby has noticed him and Illya hopes, for the man’s sake, that he is in training or else the academy’s standards have dropped far below an acceptable level. They ignore him for the most part and have a meal full of butter and rich foods. They feed each other pieces of each dish, delighting in the tastes and decadence of flavors. And Gaby is wearing a face extremely close to her orgasm face as she takes bite out of a chocolate moose. Illya whispers to her where he would like to lick the moose off of her and she pinkens but looks interested. 

As they walk back to their hotel Gaby pulls him into a darkened alley and whispers into his ear, “Want to have a little fun with our shadow?” 

Illya nods and what follows is a faux chase. They don’t actually intend to loose the man, but they need him to think they are trying to run from him. After a few twists and turns down streets they duck into another alleyway and wait for the huffing steps of the stalker to slow and pause for a moment.

“Oh Illya,” Gaby gasps, pitching her voice to be heard, “I need you.”

Illya grins and can’t deny her this. Besides, he’s teaching the man a lesson about how to actually follow your mark. “Do you my darling?”

“Yes,” and she moans like Illya is touching her. Her eyes are wicked and she is ever the consummate performer. As Illya had once told her, the world was missing a true talent, “I need to feel you in me. Stretching me. Hammering me. Hammer out the capitalist in me.”

It takes all of Illya’s training not to burst into laughter right then and there. Locking eyes with his wife does not help in the slightest. Now it is a race to see who cracks first.

“Of course,” Illya manages to get out, thankful his voice hasn’t yet broken on his suppressed laughter, “I will conquer you like Mother Russia conquers filthy capitalism.”

They both lose it about the same time, and dissolve into laughter that echoes off the stones of the buildings. They almost miss the embarrassed shuffling of their tale’s feet as he leaves the scene of the crime. Ocne Illya and Gaby manage to get their giggles under control they begin to make their way back to their chic little hotel.

When they are about a block away, Gaby reaches up and bites Illya on his ear before whispering to him, “Come and conquer if you can,” before she is darting up the hotel steps and disappearing into the lit lounge. Illya wills his erection down and then slowly makes his way inside with a swaggering walk. His night is just beginning after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~`


	15. A Solo Introduction

_A Solo Introduction_

_As much as Napoleon hates Sanders on a personal level, he will admit that his handler generally gives him good information along with interesting assignments. That does not change the fact that Sanders is the literal definition of a prick with power._

_Napoleon is pulled off a promising case of an Argentinian heiress because another Dr. Doom from the Nazi side of the fence who decided to play ball with the USA has gone missing. Not just missing, but seemingly vanished into thin air. Honestly, Solo blames those Fleming novels that gave every junior cadet some grand idea of spywork which made them neglect some of the more boring, but necessary, tasks. Like making sure your rocket scientists who could cause the end of the world don’t get kidnapped. You know, little things like that._

_Two years this man is missing and he has to be spotted just as Solo was about to head off to sunny South America. It’s like the Nazi’s kept coming back to ruin his day. But at least the man was alive and in Rome, so not another backwater like the Udon Thani affair. He still had the scars from that snake bite._

_Seemed straightforward enough. Find rocket scientist, save rocket scientist, don’t die in the process. Cut and dry. But of course things never got to stay simple when the Russians got involved. Apparently the rocket scientist had a daughter that he had abandoned to rot behind the Berlin Wall because Nazi’s win all of the parenting awards. The daughter, one Gaby Teller, although she sometimes used her foster father’s name; Schmidt, lives in East Berlin where she worked at a garage._

_So an extraction was on the line? Not exactly. Because Gaby was engaged to a Russian architect who may or may not be a Russian agent. Unclear about the agent part? So was the CIA, which meant Napoleon was walking half blind into whatever mess this Gaby girl was about to end up in._

_Apparently the fiance, one Illya Kuryakin, had been selected to design a resort on the Black Sea for heroes of the Soviet Union. Solo resisted the urge to gag at that title. The architect and his fiance were coming to Rome to examine the pascal architecture and to meet Rudolph von Tresch, also known as Uncle Rudi to one Gaby Teller. Uncle Rudi, the man who was seen in the company of the people believed to have snatched Udo Teller from right under the CIA’s nose. Oh how the plot thickened._

_Whatever Teller had been working on, or was currently working on, was enough to make both the Russians and Americans extremely antsy. To the point of a grudging support and an acknowledgment not to kill the other country’s agents should the spy worlds collide. Except both sides were hesitant to share their information, especially about any agents. Once another country knew the identity of an agent that agent was burned. It meant forced retirement and hiding in New Zealand raising sheep or death. Frankly, Solo didn’t know which was worse._

_So he would need to find a way to charm the daughter to find out what she knew, not much was Solo’s guess, and befriend her fiance, in the effort to get close to Uncle Rudi in order to get at the masters of whatever world ending plot was being concocted. Solo would have killed for a simple extraction over this mess. He was walking in with information missing and he could tell Sanders didn’t like it anymore then he did. An ill informed agent was a dead agent._

_But this was too important to wait for better intel, they had to move now. The kidnappers had two years with Teller, who knows how far he’d gotten in his research by now. The fact that he wasn’t dead was also worrisome because it indicated a larger plan, but the fact that he was alive meant he could provide information on the organization’s operations. A mixed bag, but that’s how spywork tended to be._

_He already had his cover picked out, Jack Devine, a gentleman thief specializing in hard to obtain antiques who was there to get the patronage of the Vinccegurra family. He just hoped he didn’t end up with a bullet in his head._


	16. When in Rome

They arrive in Rome dressed as westerners. Gaby wears a fashionable outfit all in white, from her dress to her coat to her earrings to her heeled sandals, while Illya is dressed in darker muted colors, as if to provide a backdrop for his wife to shine. They are dressed like they belong in the west but there is something about them that marks them as just a little bit other, a little bit not from here, a little bit old world exotic. It’s like the Iron Curtain has left marks on them that the rest of the world can see.

They check in and have the bellhop send their bags to their room. Illya goes to fetch his camera and a few extra rolls of film from his luggage while Gaby gets a drink at the bar before they head out to see some of the sights close to their hotel. 

Gaby is sitting at the bar, savoring a lime gimlet, when a handsome dark haired man sits down next to her.

“This seat taken?” And Gaby can hear the underlying flirtation in his voice. American, by the way his vowels fall a little flat and wide, unlike the clipped accent of British speakers. Her engagement ring, and the thin gold band of her wedding ring, glitter on her hand but he’s American. He will not realize that she’s married because her rings rest on her right hand instead of the western left. 

“Apparently,” Gaby replies, taking another sip of her drink. What’s the harm? She won’t be here for long. As much as he tries to deny it Illya is a little bit nervous about being outside of the Soviet controlled east and won't delay in their room. This is a new experience for both of them. And her husband tends to worry about anything and everything that could go wrong in a new situation. It's why his buildings tend to be the most secure and safe of those built by the government. 

“Now what’s a beautiful woman like you doing here all alone?” the dark haired man asks before gesturing for the bartender and ordering a whiskey neat. There is something artificial in this man’s presentation, as if he is too polished, like an actor selling toothpaste.

“That’s rather forward of you,” Gaby replies, keeping her voice light, her legs crossed, not really turning to face him fully. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Jake Devine,” the suave man replies, almost looking like he is going to grab her hand to kiss it, but Gaby shifts her hands out of range of his efforts, “Art and antiquities dealer.” 

“A grave robber? I’ve never met one of those before,” Gaby replies, taking another sip of her drink and examining the man in his expensive three piece suit over the rim of her glass. He is as exotic to her and she is to him. A man of business although there is something innately false about him that puts her on edge. 

“No, no,” Devine laughs, “I don’t rob the tombs, I just make sure the contents get to people who will truly appreciate their beauty.” 

“Ah, so you’re the fence,” Gaby remarks, pushing any buttons she can find only to be disappointed that there is a glitch in the wiring when no reaction is forthcoming.

“But you haven’t told me your name,” the man responds to her and, in any other circumstance, Gaby can see where he would be charming.

“I’m not sure you’ve earned it,” she replies, cocking her head slightly to the side.

“Shall I simply call you beautiful or would you prefer darling?” Devine asks, laying it on thick.

“I’ve always found the best compliment is silence,” Gaby tells him with a delicate roll of her shoulder. This game of give and take between strangers at the bar is starting to become stale fast.

She sees Illya approaching, his large Russian frame a direct contrast to the short swarthy men of Italy. Whereas their bodies tell of harvesting grapes and olives, carving marble columns, and voyages to Africa, Illya’s body calls to mind Vikings, and battling bears and surviving the cold, deep winters of the north. She can practically sense his annoyance from here as he sees another man trying to chat up his wife.

“But then how will I dazzle you with my charm and wit?,” Devine asks her, thinking this will be an easy game. A bit of cat and mouse flirtations while she plays hard to get. He is in for a surprise.

It had been with a hidden glee that Gaby had watched her spouse make his way through the lounge and to the bar. Normally, a man with a camera around his neck who was clearly a tourist wouldn’t raise any alarms. But her husband wasn’t a normal man, and although she’d never seen him hit anyone, she wouldn’t hesitate to bet on him in a fight.

She can tell the exact moment Devine realizes there is someone --someone far larger than him--standing, well lurking, behind him. It’s in the sudden subtle stiffening of his body and the fading of lascivious intent from his eyes.

Devine turns, slowly, and then looks up, up, up, into the cold eyes of an angry Russian giant. 

“Good evening,” comes Illya’s heavily accented English greeting. Gaby stifles her giggle knowing that most of the ham-handed accent is to send a point, to inspire fear into this posturing American. She will never admit it to anyone, but she often comes the hardest when Illya murmurs Russian into her cunt. 

“And who might you be?” Devine asks, all charm and friendliness despite the tenseness in his shoulders.

“Her husband.”

The words drop like a stone from a mountain ledge into a frozen lake. There is a threat there, lurking just beneath the surface. 

Solo resists the urge to gulp. Fucking Sanders. He said they were engaged, not married. Fiances were one thing, but a newly married couple presented additional problems. This was the reason he hated incomplete intel. He was liable to end up as dog food from the way the Russian was eyeing him. KGB agent? Maybe, but only an idiot would make someone that conspicuous a spy. Then again, he might have other skill sets that made him an asset. Probably a dangerous one considering his size and build. 

“Illya,” Gaby thrilled, “what took you so long?”

“Uncle Oleg rang,” he replies, his gaze soft as he shifts his attention to his wife, but his words still hold a warning to the American. “He wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“How kind of him,” Gaby replied, hopping off her barstool and taking her husband’s arm. “Perhaps we should buy him a bottle of wine?”

Illya snorts and mutters underneath his breath, “More like the whole vineyard.”

But he allows his much smaller wife to drag him off into the city without so much as a backward glance at the man at the bar.

~~~~

Solo downed his drink, cursing the fact that he was in this position. Ms. Teller, or rather Mrs. Kuryakin, hadn’t even given him her name. She was clearly wary of charming strangers, perhaps not unwisely considering where she grew up, but that meant his normal charms weren’t going to work in this circumstance. At least not right away. And he very much doubted he would live long enough to actually do his job if the Russian saw him trying to seduce his wife. 

He ordered another whiskey and then asked for the hotel phone, calling his handler’s number. 

“What?” came the bark over the phone.

“I just met the loveliest couple at the hotel bar. Young, the woman a study in avoiding direct questions, the man, a picture of angry daddy issues just waiting to be erupt. Oh, and they’re married,” Solo spoke with a casualness the belayed his very real irritation. “Is there anything else you forgot to mention?”

“I’m working off as much information as you are Solo,” Sanders told him, brusk and probably lying.

“Well if you could provide me something actually useful, and hopefully updated, information that would be wonderful,” Solo told him, taking another sip of his drink. Delightful.

“Just do your job,” Sanders commanded and then hung up before Solo could remind him that he could only do so much as a mere mortal.

The night was a wash as far as direct interaction with the marks were concerned, so he’d just go bug the couple’s room, find some female company and retire for the night. 

He’d think of a new approach to the Soviet state children tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~

Later that night, while Gaby was in the shower, Illya preformed a sweep of the room with growing irritation. He then called Oleg.

"I want everything you have on Jack Devine. My room was bugged. American."

~~~~~~~~

Before she had gotten a drink at the bar, Gaby had stepped into the hotel lobby's phone booth and dialed a long memorized number.

"Is Mr. Donaldson there?" she asked the receptionist who picked up.

"Is this about the color of your vehicle?" came the coded response.

"Yes, I wanted the green car," Gaby replied. It meant, _I am here and in a position to help._

"We'll be happy to help you that. I'll have Mr. Donaldson contact you tomorrow," the cool female voice on the other end of the line told her before the line went dead.

Waverly was in town.


	17. It's Just a Party

Gaby luxuriates in a decadent hotel room that the Soviet government is paying for (the irony is not lost on her) and idly plays with a tuff of Illya’s blond hair. If he weren’t Russian he would be the exact type of male Uncle Rudi would have picked out for her; blond hair, blue eyed, clearly a superior physical specimen with brains to match. An Aryan poster child. Except for the virulent hatred of fascism, Nazis and anti-Russian sentiment. 

But her quick tempered husband always felt the righteousness in every situation. She leaned down to nuzzle his fine nearly white hair on his chest. It was like his mother had told her, he did have a tender heart. His anger was a ruse, a poorly constructed mask to hide the vulnerable truth beneath. She pressed a kiss over his heart and was pleased to feel his arms come up around her, pulling her closer to him. 

She rested her head on his chest listening to his breathing shift from slow and even to an awakened pace.

“What time is it?” Illya murmured, half asleep.

“A little after seven,” Gaby told him, not even bothering to look at the clock, “we have time.”

“I’m meeting with the Minister’s attache at 8. I need to get up,” Illya groaned, shifting out from under Gaby and getting up.

“You know we’re meeting my Uncle Rudi at noon. He’s sending a car,” Gaby reminded Illya, annoyance seeping into her tone. He was not getting out of this family meeting.

“I will be back in time,” Illya assured her, “What does it matter if we’re a few minutes late? He already hates me.”

“Being late won’t help him change his mind,” she called after her husband as he walked into the bathroom, “He’s German.”

Illya rolled his eyes but only when his back was turned so that Gaby couldn’t see him.

“I said I’d be there,” Illya called out before shutting the bathroom door and hopping into the shower, effectively winning the argument by preventing his wife from responding.

“And you’re not wearing the hat,” Gaby yells at the closed door before huffing and getting up to start the day..

~~~~~~~~~~~

He had a bad feeling about this meeting with Oleg. A sort of cramp in the bottom of his lower intestine that told him the news he was about to receive would drastically change things and make the mission a nightmare. It’d happened once or twice before he’d been given his deep cover assignment over two years ago. Like the time the scientist he was supposed to be securing turned out to have a twin brother, or the moment one of his assets had shot themselves. Something bad was about to happen.

Oleg didn’t even bother with a greeting, just said, “We’re teaming up with the Americans.”

Illya immediately tensed and felt his anger levels rise. America, the supposed land of the free that was rife with poverty, racism, sexism, and used that opiate of the masses, religion, to justify their actions. Gaby and he had often argued about the East versus West mentality. Outside, away from prying ears, and she pointed out that each system had its problems, but that it was the ability to address those problems that differentiated the two systems. Illya had argued that hypocrisy in actions versus words was what made the difference between the nations. They normally were able to argue with reason even if they did so passionately. But Gaby was not here to voice her reasoning on behalf of the West, and Illya knew he wasn’t going to like where this conversation was going. 

“You will be working with an American agent. You were briefed on him previously; Napoleon Solo. He is already here under an alias and staying at your hotel which should make coordination easier. An expert thief, he will take charge of looking for whatever bomb or research Udo Teller has come up with while you are to focus on locating the scientist,” Oleg told him as they walked along an isolated walkway outside the main city. 

They turned a corner and then he saw him. That smug bastard who had tried to hit on Gaby last night, having no respect for the wedding ring she wore on her hand. Illya didn’t think, he just moved. 

The American went down fairly easily for someone who had CIA and military training. Within two minutes Illya had the smug faced prick in a choke hold and he was well on his way to ridding the world of one more pesky capitalist when Oleg ordered him to release the asshole.

“Don’t kill your partner on the first day.”

So, the second day was open to negotiation.

Another briefing followed and then the agents were left to their own devices to coordinate their plans of attack.

“Does your wife know you’re KGB?” Solo asked, clearly already knowing the answer but unable to resist needling the beast. 

“How are you going to arrange a meeting with the Vincegurras?” Illya asked in return.”It is not exactly den of thieves.” 

“You obviously don’t understand how these people work,” Solo shrugged, “You’ll just have to wait and see. I understand there’s a party happening today. Perhaps I’ll drop by.”

“Just stay out of my way,” Illya told him, the warning far from friendly and left the American agent to look at the retreating figure in bemusement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn’t late, but he wanted to be. Meeting Uncle Rudi was going to be an exercise in self-control and his was already worn thin by his interaction with the American earlier. 

When Gaby appeared, dressed in a green and white dress with ridiculous earrings that drew the eye, Illya took a long moment to appreciate how she looked. No matter the faint trace of motor oil that lingered beneath her fingernails she could not hide the elegance her ballet training had drilled into her. She possessed strength, beauty and grace no matter the western worlds attempt to hide her origins. She came to stand before him and grabbed both of his hands in hers while looking up into his eyes.

“You will not fight with my uncle,” she said to him, almost like a mantra.

“I will not fight with your uncle,” Illya dutifully repeated.

“No matter how rude he is,” Gaby continued.

“No matter how much of a prick he is,” Illya responded.

“We are going to have a nice time at the party,” Gaby said, her hands clenched tight on his own. She was nervous too.

“We will have a nice time,” Illya intoned blandly, but he squeezed Gaby’s hands in comfort. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered to her, before opening up the car door.

“Of course,” she replied, a little bit of false brightness in her words as she slipped into the car, “We’re going to a fabulously wealthy party where I plan to drink champagne, eat caviar and watch race cars.”

“Exactly,” Illya replied.

~~~~~~~~~~

Illya hated Uncle Rudi on sight. He’d already hated him on principle but seeing the man in person just justified the hatred. What a dumpy man. He thought he has superior genetics? Despite his fine suit he had crumbs on the collar and he was barely taller than Gaby.

“Uncle Rudi,” Gaby greeted the man with polite affection, going to give him an embrace.

“Gabi,” the older man replied with some fondness, but it fell just a bit flat to Illya’s ears. “It has been far too long.” 

Uncle Rudi turned to the figure standing behind Gaby, and in a resigned tone said, “And this must be Illya.”

Neither man moved to shake the other’s hand. 

“Come,” Uncle Rudi said, drawing Gaby with him, “let me show you around and introduce you. Mrs. Vincegurra is most interested in meeting you.”

What followed was enough small talk and false sincerity to make Illya want to live in a cave in the north of Russia for all of his days. The shallowness and the decadence of the party made his skin crawl and he couldn’t help think that this was the exact place he’d expect some world ending plot to be hatched. 

Uncle Rudi was just commenting on Illya’s size and how he couldn’t really be an architect when Illya heard the commotion coming from the other side of the tent. The American had arrived. 

“I did not realize there would be boxing at the race track,” Illya attempted to joke.

Uncle Rudi gave a polite chuckle but his eyes narrowed as he turned to survey the disturbance. Gaby smacked his lightly on the chest when her Uncle’s head was turned and he squeezed her waist in reply. 

“These parties are always such an event,” Uncle Rudi replied, “One never quite knows who is going to show up.” 

“Uncle,” Gaby intoned, her voice indicating a change to a slightly delicate subject, “about the wedding.”

But she was prevented from continuing by the arrival of one stately woman and a familiar handsome man at her side. Gaby felt Illya tense instantly and she put a soothing hand on his chest, her wedding ring glinting in the light of the afternoon sun.

“Victoria,” Uncle Rudi proclaimed, “Let me introduce you to my niece, Gaby.” After the cheek kisses were exchanged he threw in, almost as an afterthought, “And her fiance, Illya Kuryakin.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Illya said, shaking the tall woman’s hand. “Your city is full of inspiration.”

“How kind of you to say so,” the woman’s smooth voice was like chilled vodka over cut crystal. “You really must come by the Villa while you’re here. The gardens will take your breath away.”

“We’d be delighted,” Gaby replied. 

“And you are?” Uncle Rudi asked, gesturing to the dark haired man.

“Jack Devine,” he replied, holding out his hand. 

While Uncle Rudi shook it Illya couldn’t help but coldly remark, “We’ve met.”

“Have you?” Victoria asked, “What an odd coincidence. How ever did you meet?”

“We’re staying in the same hotel,” Solo replied, quickly taking over the narrative, “I was unaware that Ms. Teller here was attached and there was a mix up at the bar. But no harm done. We’re all friends now.”

Illya clenched his hands and Gaby spoke up, “Darling, weren’t you telling me how you wanted to take some pictures of the skyline? Why don’t you do that while Mrs. Vincegurra shows me her impressive car collection. I know you find shop talk boring.”

Illya gave Gaby a smile that was slightly tight but mentally he was thanking her for removing him for a man he just wanted to punch. “Of course dear.” His wife had just given him the perfect excuse to take as many pictures as he needed to determine if Uncle Rudi and his employers had been in contact with enriched uranium. 

Gaby was soon engrossed into in some detailed engine discussion with a man who may or may not need to have his windpipe crushed while Illya took pictures of the suspects in questions. And his wife.

“So I take it her uncle doesn’t know you’re married,” came the annoying voice of the American operative.

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me and not finding out information from the Vincegurras?” Illya asked, refusing to look up from his camera. 

“And if Uncle Rudi doesn’t know I’m going to take a wild guess and say your handler doesn’t know either,” Solo continued, as if Illya had not spoken, “Which had me wondering; why would a man in your line of business keep his marriage a secret? Feelings of shame perhaps?”

“Why would we be ashamed?” Illya asked curtly, lowering his camera as he turned to glare at the cocky American. 

“No, that’s not it,” Solo said, almost to himself, pointedly ignoring the angry Russia beside him. “If you were just fulfilling your mission there would be no need for secrecy. Which means that getting married wasn’t part of the plan.” Illya said nothing, only glared as the American laughed before lightly smacking the Russian’s shoulder. “You dog.”

“You are not needed here,” Illya practically growls at the slightly shorter man.

“Come now, we’re supposed to be friendly. Smile so the nice fascists think we’re friends and not conspirators,” Solo tells him with a charming grin affixed to his face. 

Illya doesn’t grin. Just raised his camera to once again take pictures of the suspects.

“Only fools smile as much as you do,” Illya finally says, before leaving the American without any explanation and heading over to his wife. He’s done his bit. Now they can leave.


End file.
